


next time

by sacrsanct



Category: Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But He Doesn't Realize It, Hate Sex, Just a little tho, M/M, Praise Kink, Touch-Starved, all these tags have qualifications on them why am i like this, like really he's so straight, more like annoyed sex, tommy is totally heterosexual guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 14:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacrsanct/pseuds/sacrsanct
Summary: The room feels a degree hotter. Tommy wants to jump out of his skin. Instead, he sits up, groans “Christ, you’re annoying,” and grabs the back of Noh-Varr’s neck, pulling him into a searing kiss.orReally, Tommy just wanted a late-night snack. In the food way. Not in the hooking-up-with-your-ex-girlfriend's-ex-boyfriend way.





	next time

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing smut bear w me. i love these two thickheaded idiots.

The troubles begin when Tommy goes down to the fridge at half-past two in the morning because, fuck, he really needs an apple.

He usually doesn’t crave apples. That’s not a _ thing _ that most people crave. But, then again, Tommy isn’t most people. He’s not even _ people _, talking technically.

Billy would say that “othering” is a bad idea and only leads to harm and whatever equality bullshit got shoved up his ass by his shrink parents. David, lovely ex-terrorist David, would refuse, even now, to classify himself as a human.

Tommy just thinks that he is what he is, and if what he is helps him go fast enough to walk on water, so be it. If what he is makes him crave a fucking apple at half-past two in the morning, so be it.

They don’t store apples in the fridge. Old habits die hard, and Kate, upper-class, cello-playing, Manhattan-socialite Kate, insists on a fruit bowl. But, again, it’s half-past two in the morning. Tommy _ really _ wants an apple. And he’s not thinking about fruit bowls, because who the hell _ ever _thinks about fruit bowls, unless they’re Kate?

He’s glad America finds her antics cute. Actually, he’s kind of not, because they rival Billy and Teddy for most disgustingly in love couple ever. It sucks. Tommy hates affection. Plus, the really loud sex that takes place in Kate’s room—_ right next to his _—got old pretty fast.

The apples are not in the fridge. He stands there staring into the fridge for twelve whole seconds, confused, because why are the apples not in the fridge? He saw Teddy bring them in yesterday. He knows they have apples. Rosh Hashanah starts tomorrow night. (Or, more accurately, because it’s half-past two in the morning, tonight.) They have to have apples.

The stairs don’t creak, but Tommy hears footfalls, and he slams the fridge shut and zooms away, which, belatedly, he realizes is stupid, because if he’s avoiding being caught, there’s not really any question as to who it is that’s running away at super-speed.

Also, like, why is he running away? What is so shameful about the relationship between a man and his apple?

Jesus. He needs some sleep.

He walks back to the fridge at a speed only slightly faster than normal and resumes his position propped up against the island counter, gazing into the fridge, searching for an apple.

“Excuse me,” is coughed out behind him in a voice gruff from sleep, and for a minute Tommy thinks it’s just Teddy, probably scavenging for some late-night cereal (he loves Lucky Charms, because he is the literal embodiment of a two-year-old Golden Retriever). And then he really hopes it’s not Teddy, because Tommy’s forced up from the counter by a pair of firm hands, slender fingers grabbing him right above the hipbone, slipping under his loose pajama shirt, gripping skin and muscle dangerously close to the front of his body, and Tommy _ shivers. _That would be a pretty bad reaction to have to his twin brother’s boyfriend. That would be a pretty bad way for his twin brother’s boyfriend to touch him. Unless his twin brother’s boyfriend was suffering from poor eyesight, or some really fucked-up twin fantasies.

With those fingers raising goosebumps on Tommy’s arms and down across the top of his ribcage, time seems to run in slow motion, which is an extremely strange feeling for a boy who runs through his days like they’re nothing more than sheets of paper, crumpled up and tossed over his shoulder on his way out the door.

Tommy feels a body pass behind him. For some reason, he doesn’t step forward to let the intruder pass by—no, he stands there, useless as a straw doll, while he’s manhandled away from the island counter and towards the cold fridge. He feels those fingers against his stomach and his sides, and he feels a body pressing against his own, skin hot and smooth, dragging against his ass and the lower part of his back, and, _ fuck _. Tommy’s glad he’s wearing sweatpants and didn’t elect to come downstairs in just his boxers, because he’s suddenly got a boner.

Noh-Varr is standing next to him, lounging languidly against the counter, not wearing a shirt, because why would he be wearing a shirt? And Tommy isn’t gay. So it doesn’t actually matter that Noh-Varr’s not wearing a shirt, except Tommy’s also wildly jealous of his stupidly perfect washboard stomach and the way his muscle cuts in a swimmer’s V through the rim of his gray sweatpants.

His brain says to him, _ What if you licked that line. And then what if you licked a little lower. _

He says to his brain, _ Shut the fuck up. _

“What’s up,” Tommy croaks out, crossing his legs with haste and emphasis.

“Thirsty,” is the blunt reply, and Tommy’s impressed with his restraint, because he doesn’t automatically respond with _ me, too _ . Also, he isn’t gay, so it’s not like that’d be an accurate response. Though, to be fair, his sexuality’s never really prevented him from flirting a _ little _, or letting his gaze drift when watching straight porn, or even from kissing David in a completely heterosexual way that he has not thought about once since it happened. Because it was an accident. And because Tommy just isn’t gay. Billy would have told him if he was gay.

“Cool,” Tommy replies stupidly. “I’m here for an apple,” he adds, even more stupidly, after a few seconds of terse and static-filled silence. It seems the blood that’s supposed to be in his brain has vacated that area and headed straight to his dick.

Noh-Varr says, “Have you checked the fruit bowl.” He doesn’t ask it. He says it.

“No,” Tommy says. He never knew that feeling this stupid could also make him feel this turned on. Noh-Varr might be as subtle as a firework at a funeral, but sometimes, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. “No, I have not checked the fruit bowl.”  
He checks the fruit bowl. There are a plethora of apples in the fruit bowl. He grabs an apple and turns around to face Noh-Varr, a biting quip just aching to jump off of his tongue, but in his apple-and-abs induced brain melt, he forgets that he’s hard as a rock, and seconds feel like hours as Noh-Varr’s eyes slowly flick downwards. And pause. And flick back up. And then Noh-Varr smirks, and Tommy’s genuinely concerned about passing out. Or worse.

They hold eye contact for the most viciously painful five seconds of Tommy’s life.

“Nice job,” Noh-Varr says, overdoing the sincerity. “I am proud of you for finding the apple.”

Tommy can feel himself getting harder, and puts _ gets off on praise, sarcastic or otherwise _ in his mental box of _ Weird Things About Me That Probably Stem From My Past That I Am Just Not Going To Deal With Today. _ “I hope you… quench your thirst,” he says. Somehow, he manages to lift half of his mouth in a cocky smile.

Noh-Varr grins with an unparalleled level of dark filth. “I’m sure I will.”

Somehow, Tommy makes it back up the stairs at a normal human level of speed. This time, he doesn’t think about the sociopolitical implications of calling himself ‘_ human _’. This time, he doesn’t even think about his apple, even after the ordeal it took to obtain it.

This time, he thinks, _ Holy shit. I think I _ did _ enjoy that kiss with David _.

He doesn’t even remember walking down the hall to his room, opening the door, slipping under the covers, or taking a single bite after his long-sought-after apple before placing it on his bedside table. All that Tommy’s aware of is some porn playing on the cracked screen of his phone and lotion in his palm and his hand wrapped around his dick and the completely suppressed wish that it was a different set of fingers making him feel this way.

No. He doesn’t think about that. He’s simply doing this because a half-past two wakeup led to some morning wood that didn’t realize it wasn’t morning yet, and now he’s taking care of business. It’s clinical, transactional. Hell, it’s barely even pleasurable.

Which is probably why he feels like he’s about to cum so quickly. There’s no real emotion behind this. He’s just going through the motions. Up, down, and there’s a knock on his door, cutting through the fake moans playing in his ears. Why is there a knock on his door?  
He stops, tugs out his headphones, frustrated in more ways than one, and readjusts the covers before saying—a little too breathily—to the intruder, “The fuck do you want.”

“To talk about earlier,” says Noh-Varr’s voice, the same slightly-monotonous cadence as always breaking straight through the door and making Tommy shift just a little bit in his attempt at a natural seated position.

“Earlier?” Tommy asks. “Do you mean, like, five minutes ago?”  
The handle turns and the door clicks as it opens. Tommy could have sworn he’d locked it.

“Yes.” Noh-Varr stands with his shoulder pressed against the doorframe, one foot crossed over the other with his toe touching the ground and his heel lifted. He hasn’t put on a shirt. He looks like a ghost, illuminated only by the sharp glare of Tommy’s phone screen (he should probably turn that off before Alien Eyes gets a better look) and whatever stray bits of moonlight can find their way through windows. The muscles tearing across his front are even more prominent than they were in the washed-out white light of the refrigerator door.

Tommy’s stomach does flips, and he tells himself it’s only because of embarrassment. And jealousy. Not anything else.

“What’s there to talk about,” Tommy says, because _ talking about earlier _seems like the worst idea anyone on this flaming mess of a team has ever had, and that’s including doing illegal drugs to become the Rachel Dolezal of mutants. Or getting tossed into juvie for arson. Also, he’s pretty sure Noh-Varr isn’t one for the emotional conversations, and he’s pretty sure that this talk isn’t going to be about Tommy’s runaway sexuality.

Though, of course, there’d be nothing to talk about there. So that’s a non-starter.

Noh-Varr lifts an eyebrow, and his forehead doesn’t even wrinkle. Rude. “I think I should come inside. I don’t want to wake anyone with this open door.” And, Christ, if _ that _ wasn’t suggestive. And then some.

Slowly, he kicks the door closed behind him as he steps fully across the doorway. 

Tommy clicks off his phone with haste, because not only does he not want Noh-Varr judging the porn he watches, he also doesn’t want Noh-Varr to know that he was watching porn, full stop, and the room plunges into almost-complete darkness. Tommy’s eyes adjust quickly. Everything about him goes quickly. 

He can see Noh-Varr looking at the lotion on his bedside table.

“How was your apple?” asks Noh-Varr.

“I mean, it was an _ apple _,” Tommy answers. “It was good. I don’t know.”

Footfalls and a slight breeze pass by Tommy’s face. A crunch sounds out, and if Tommy wasn’t blatantly not looking at Noh-Varr, he would have seen teeth sink into the apple’s flesh and a tongue licking at the juice escaping his lips. “It is a good apple,” Noh-Varr concedes. He puts it back down on the nightstand, and when Tommy gathers enough of himself to look up, he has a hard time making eye contact.  
“I’m so glad we’re in agreement.”

“May I sit?” Always with the politeness. Rarely with the kindness.

Tommy doesn’t have any chairs in his room. He doesn’t have a proper desk. He does work on his bed, and he likes to have as much free space as possible so that he can fill it with what Billy likes to call _ junk, trash, _ or _ so much fucking clutter _.

He feels a little weird for thinking about Billy while his dick’s hard. Then he feels a little weird for thinking about thinking about that.

So, because of the lack of chairs and the mess of discarded shirts and maybe a spare five-pound weight dotting the floor, Noh-Varr sits on the edge of the bed, missing Tommy’s feet by inches.

His weight causes the covers to shift and fall off of Tommy’s body. Tommy leans forwards into his best attempt at a pike stretch.

“What are you doing?” Noh-Varr sounds amused, concerned, and a little fed up.

“Stretching. I run a lot. My calves cramp.”

“Mmm.”

“I bet aliens don’t get muscle cramps. You’re all weird like that. You know, I met this rainbow-colored lesbian chick once, which, I mean, seems a little on the nose, and after our teams finished beating the shit out of each other, she was the only one who wasn’t stretching out her arms.” He frowns, and speeds across the room to the light switch. “But she wasn’t Kree, so.” He rushes back to the bed, resuming his stretching position before Noh-Varr can process Tommy’s hard-on in the light. There’s not really a point to the anecdote except to talk about anything other than what happened in the kitchen.

“Okay,” Noh-Varr says, like he doesn’t care, which he doesn’t. Then: “You find me attractive.”

  
“No I don’t,” is Tommy’s immediate and petulant reply. He might as well have stuck out his tongue and blown a raspberry.

“Your anatomy seems to say otherwise,” Noh-Varr argues, pointing at where Tommy is bending over his lower body.

_ Oh, fuck it _ . Tommy lounges backward, bending a knee with one sock-clad foot on his bed. His pajama shirt inches its way up again, and he can feel Noh-Varr’s gaze burning across the strip of skin between his hem and the band of his pants. His sweatpants are still riding low; he didn’t pull them back up all the way when he was so rudely interrupted. He looks like a bad thumbnail for an amateur porn video. “Humans have this really fun thing called _ morning wood _.”

“But you are not a human.”

“Jeez. You’d think I could escape this _ identity politics _ shit for more than fifteen hours. I’m basically a human, just better. Do aliens not get morning wood?”

“I do. I would hazard a guess that your rainbow-colored lesbian chick does not, though I don’t know. Also, it’s not yet the morning.”  
“It’s, like, three AM. That stands for Almost Morning. Right now, at least. When it’s eleven, it’ll stand for After Morning.”

“What does it stand for at six AM?” Noh-Varr asks teasingly.

“Something stupid, probably,” says Tommy. “Great. We talked. Now I have to deal with this.” He gestures crudely at where his thighs meet the rest of his body, and Noh-Varr follows the gesture without a single ounce of subtlety.

Tommy’s pretty sure the _ get the fuck out of my room so that I can masturbate to the mental image of your abs in a completely heterosexual way _was implied, but, for some reason, Noh-Varr remains planted firmly where he is.

They stare at each other.

“Deal with it,” Noh-Varr says—commands, maybe?—and Tommy fists the sheets involuntarily between white-knuckled fingers.

“Try not telling me what to do, and then we’ll talk.”

Noh-Varr’s smile is devilish. “Did you not just say that we already talked?”

The room feels a degree hotter. Tommy wants to jump out of his skin. Instead, he sits up, groans “Christ, you’re annoying,” and grabs the back of Noh-Varr’s neck, pulling him into a searing kiss.

It’s one thing to jerk off to a guy. It’s another thing entirely to kiss him. One’s a fluke, and the other’s a crisis. And right now? It’s safe to say that Tommy Shepherd is in full-on lockdown mode. Defcon motherfucking seven.

But that all disappears when Noh-Varr bites at Tommy’s bottom lip and slips his tongue inside Tommy’s mouth and grabs the front of Tommy’s shirt with one hand and a fistful of white hair with the other and _ fuck _, maybe human oppressors are right, because this is so much better than any other kiss ever. Though, granted, there isn’t a huge pool of comparison samples from which he can pick.

Noh-Varr kisses like he fights: brutal, precise, destructive. His lips are bruisingly persistent, and he slowly lowers Tommy down onto the mattress. He kisses his way along Tommy’s jaw, sucking marks onto his collarbone, fingers teasing at the loose scooped neckline of Tommy’s ratty tee. He kisses like he’s a riled-up boy with something to prove and someone to prove it to.

And Tommy reciprocates. They’ve never really had a sunshine-and-daisies dynamic, and this isn’t any different. Tommy fights back, nipping at Noh-Varr’s lip, dragging his fingers down his bare back and shoving his knee between Noh-Varr’s legs. He’s happy to feel that Noh-Varr’s hard, too. A small part of him, foolishly, was worried he wouldn’t be. Tommy pushes up, straining a little, arching when Noh-Varr’s hand brushes against his hipbone, those strong and slender fingers tugging down lightly against the band of his sweatpants.

He flips them around with relative ease, because even though he’s extremely turned on and has about six feet of muscle atop him, Tommy still has superhuman strength. “You haven’t really let me _ deal with my issue, _ roach boy,” he gasps, and Noh-Varr, even though his arms are pinned up to the side of his head, even though he’s lying prone beneath Tommy, even though he’s a clear wreck, hair flying everywhere, lips pink and eyes bright, _ smirks _. 

“I was never stopping you,” he says. “Your hands have been free this whole time.”

“Your face is gonna get stuck like that,” Tommy retorts, because it’s always good form to go for the ad hominem when faced with indisputable facts. He frees one of Noh-Varr’s arms to palm at himself through his pants.

“I caused the issue, did I not? Shouldn’t I help clean up my mess? It’s only polite,” Noh-Varr says innocently, chest rising and falling beautifully below Tommy. 

“Are you calling me a mess?” It’s getting a little hard to breathe now, and his voice hitches painfully at the end of his sentence.

“Would that be so inaccurate?”  
Tommy growls in a mix of being genuinely pissed off at this asshole of an alien and being deeply delighted by the idea of those fingers wrapped around him. “Stop being a dick.”

Noh-Varr wrests his other hand free of Tommy’s, which he probably could have done at any time, because, again, super strength, and Tommy’s face flushes at the idea that Noh-Varr willingly let himself be held down. Noh-Varr props himself up against the pillows and the headboard, halfway between sitting up and lying down, leans over to the bedside table (apple slowly oxidizing atop it) to pump a bit of lotion into his palm, and goes to pull down those sweatpants.

Tommy grabs his wrists to stop him. He knows, obviously, that the end result will be the same, but his stupid brain is yelling at him that actual nudity is a lot gayer than a messy and awkward handjob done inside his pants, so he forces Noh-Varr’s hand there instead, past the band of his sweatpants and past the band of his boxers.

Noh-Varr frowns. “This isn’t a pleasant angle on my wrist.”

“Tough shit,” Tommy chokes out. Earlier is distant history, the feeling of those hands on his hipbone and his side lightyears away, filthy looks in front of the fridge no more than a daydream of a memory. It’s nothing compared to how Noh-Varr’s fingers wrap around him, palm running up and down slowly, torturously.

This isn’t binding. This is just fooling around. This doesn’t actually _ mean _anything. 

“Jesus, can you go faster, maybe?”

“I thought you were Jewish.”

“Are you really gonna bring up God at a time like this?”

“Give me better access to you. My hand will cramp.”

“Don’t tell me what to _ do _, roach boy.”

“You’re not that great at charming men.”

“I’m straight. I don’t have to be.”

Noh-Varr shuts him up with another kiss, deep and slow. Tommy pushes him off, panting, and demands, again, “Go faster.”

Noh-Varr complies. He kisses again, sloppy, undoing his soldier-esque discipline, and his hand picks up speed. Tommy moans into his mouth, and the sound comes out as a muffled hum. Distantly, he hopes that they don’t wake up Kate—her room’s right next to his. Even more distantly, he kind of hopes that they do, and that she decides that her ex-boyfriends are a little more interesting than her current girlfriend.

Part of Tommy thinks that maybe he should try and help Noh-Varr get off, too, but a much larger part of him is overwhelmed with pleasure, and with each stroke of Noh-Varr’s hand, the idea of giving back for a good deed flies further and further away.

“I’m close,” Tommy says into the crook of Noh-Varr’s neck.

He pulls away, and Tommy whines. “What the fuck are you doing, roach boy?”

“Why do you keep calling me roach boy?”

“That’s not an answer_ , roach boy _.” Tommy’s back to palming furiously at himself, because Noh-Varr has apparently decided that leaving him high and dry is the epitome of camaraderie and being a good teammate.

“I’m going to slip your pants down,” Noh-Varr warns, and Tommy lets him.

Maybe he’s a little gay. Not gay enough to take his pants _ off _, though. And not gay enough to even think about reciprocating whatever Noh-Varr’s doing to him. It’s still fooling around. This is all just fooling around. He hasn’t gotten any since he and Kate broke up, and one accidental kiss with David and the sexual frustration that followed was not helpful in curbing his rampant hormones.

Noh-Varr presses one last kiss to Tommy’s jaw before hauling him to the edge of the bed, pushing him into a seated position, feet on the floor. He drops to his knees in front of Tommy, and that’s a sight that’ll be hard to forget. He looks completely undone. That infernal smirk makes another appearance, and he elbows Tommy’s legs apart. “Is this good?” he asks, self-confidence dripping from every syllable.

As an answer, Tommy pushes his hips forwards, and when he feels Noh-Varr’s mouth around him, he sees stars. He hasn’t been blown for _ so long _ , and this is wildly different than the way Kate used to do it. Not bad-different. Not good-different, really, because Kate Bishop has a mouth that’s good at a lot of things—they don’t call her _ the girl who can talk her way out of anything _ for no reason—including, but not at all limited to, stellar blowjobs. But, yeah, different.

_ I suppose it’s always gonna be different when it’s a _ gay _ blowjob now _, his brain bitches, and he calmly and resolutely shuts off that part of his brain, because, really, he shouldn’t be focusing on anything other than Noh-Varr’s tongue and the hollow of his sucked-in cheeks.

For a second, he thinks about holding back, letting Noh-Varr take this at his own speed, but then he remembers that he doesn’t actually really like Noh-Varr all that much as a person, and also, he’s a little bit shameless. Plus, Noh-Varr is clearly experienced at this, and he once overheard Teddy mention a Kree lack of gag reflex when they all got a bit too drunk together on Kate’s birthday.

So he doesn’t hold back. He fucks Noh-Varr’s mouth deep, fast, hard, delighting in the way Noh-Varr’s fingers dig into his thighs. He tugs lightly at Noh-Varr’s hair, doing it again when the rumbling moan it drags out shoots straight through him. When Noh-Varr pulls back for air, Tommy brushes his thumb against the pulse point where Noh-Varr’s neck meets his shoulder.

“I really am close,” he warns again, panting. And, because he does have some modicum of care for other people—more than he’d like to admit on a regular basis—he pulls out of Noh-Varr’s mouth and turns himself awkwardly to try and grab a tissue out of the box on his bedside table.

“I do not have an issue with… “ Noh-Varr starts, but trails off, expression unsure, as if he doesn’t really know how to phrase it.

Tommy struggles, too. What’s the etiquette for asking if you can cum in your ex-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s mouth in a way that isn’t inappropriately dirty, but also not so clinical that it isn’t incongruent with the fact that he’s just sucked you off? Tommy lands on, simply, “Swallowing?”

Noh-Varr nods. “I do not have an issue with swallowing.”

“You’re fuckin’ _ fantastic _,” Tommy replies, and for the first time, it’s completely without a drop of sarcasm.

Noh-Varr licks a stripe up Tommy’s cock, obscene and unbridled, before taking it back inside his mouth. Five strokes later, and Tommy’s cumming down his throat, vision white and heart pounding. 

He can’t believe this all started with a late-night craving for an apple.

Noh-Varr wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His throat bobs as he swallows. Somehow, he’s still got a smirk pasted across his face. “Good boy,” he says, and Tommy thinks, _ Well, we can investigate the very interesting way those words made me feel next time. _

And then he thinks: _ Next time? _

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoyed! kudos/comments are always loved


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